


You Got Those Demon Eyes

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Just Let Them Talk and Love Each Other GOD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11212755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: or, How The Author Wanted 2x01 to End/2x02 to Begin





	You Got Those Demon Eyes

It doesn’t make the pain—heavy and solid in her chest—disappear, but seeing Dolls _(alive he’s alive Dolls actually alive made it)_ does ease at least a little of the pressure.   She feels shock written all over her face, feels the tears she hadn’t fully wiped away stinging the corners of her eyes, and she has to swallow thickly because she thinks she sees—but then he’s smiling, slow and gradual.  Something warm and shuddering and hesitant swells up in her.  And it stays there, just under her throat, for just half a moment after he ducks his head and leaves.

But then she realizes he just _left_ and hisses, “Oh, _hell_ no,” as she bolts up after him.

Her thighs and lungs burn when she gets to the spot where he stood, and she realizes, just then for maybe the third time in 24 hours, how long it’s been since she’s slept and how bone-deep tired she is.  Panting loudly, she hears a soft sound like snow crunching underfoot and whirls around.  She huffs out a frustrated breath as she scans the nearby line of trees.  Nothing stands out—what was she expecting to stand out?—and she stomps forward.  She doesn’t bother sneaking (she can, no matter what Eliza thought, she definitely _can_ ) because what’s the point?  She doesn’t _want_ to sneak up on the guy.  It’s one part being pissed that she’s chasing after him, two parts the residual unease that had planted itself in the back of her mind since she found out about him.

“You’re so dramatic,” she says to the silence, exasperated.  “Like, seriously, who _does_ this?  Characters in bad TV shows, that’s who.  Are you just—” she trips on a root, steadies herself, continues, “Just a masochist?  Are—” she hears something, a breath or a laugh or the wind in the woods playing tricks on her and she stops.  “Can you just, like, get out here and talk to me?” she demands, flushing and hating the note of desperation in her voice, the way it almost breaks.

“This is a terrible decision,” she hears behind her and her throat is suddenly so tight and aches so much she can’t speak.

After _way_ too long, she turns and shrugs, “I thought you knew, that’s all I’m good at.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, even a bad one, but it stings with too much truth.

“That’s not true,” he says, too serious for her to laugh off, and now from just a few feet away she can see exhaustion and pain and something else she can’t even begin to describe all across his face.

“Listen,” she starts, taking a step closer—which she immediately regrets when he damn near leaps backward away from her in a way she’s unwillingly impressed by.  “Listen,” she repeats, softer and with hands held up in surrender, “Will you just—”

“This isn’t _safe_ , Wynonna,” he interrupts, eyes flashing gold for half a second, voice low and rough and almost like a snarl.

And, like… he’s not _wrong_.  She’s not completely stupid.  On the other hand…  “We have lots of horizontal surfaces to sleep on at the homestead,” she says, failing to convincingly feign disinterest.  He pins her with a look that pretty impolitely conveys exactly how fucking ridiculous he thinks _that_ is.  Scowling, she juts her chin forward stubbornly, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Lie,” he says, still not sounding quite _normal_ yet.

“Well,” she breathes, chancing half a step forward, “Sue me.  You got those demon eyes.”

“I’m not a demon,” he growls.  Literally _growls_.  What the _fuck_.

Holy _shit_.

“Yeah, but, um…” she pauses to clear her throat and shake away _that_ , whatever it is, “But like has anyone told your eyes?”  In a way that shouldn’t be as satisfying as it is, he shuts his eyes and rubs his forehead with a put-upon sigh, a gesture she’s had to have seen a million times in the last few months.  She leans forward until her shoulder lands against a tree.

When he opens his eyes again, she watches for the change.  It’s probably shock, but the way her stomach flops doesn’t feel too much like fear.  Wires must be crossed or something.  He’s barely more than arm’s length away from her now and she _aches_ to reach out.  In a show of self-restraint that even _she’s_ surprised by, she keeps her hands to herself.  His gaze is somewhere over her shoulder as he says, “You need to go home.”

“Not without you,” she replies with shocking seriousness.  She can’t leave it out like that, though.  It makes her feel exposed.  “Absolutely not.  You’re, like, one of three people who actually likes me.  Can’t lose that.”

His tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek before he raises to the bait, “Who says I like you?”

“Doc,” she says simply.

“That’s not what I…” he trails off, brow furrowing as she manages a smug, if weak, grin.

And there’s a moment, just when he rolls his eyes and she snorts with a slightly more natural smile… it’s not like it feels _normal_ , not really, not by any definition of the word, but it’s something other than the constant cascade of pure _suck_ that’s been shit on them for the last few days.  Honestly, she’ll take what she can get.

“I just—” she bites her lip, hard, and looks up at the snow-heavy branches above them, “I don’t want you to leave.  I can’t lose any more—any more people today.”

With a gravelly groan that somehow sounds both annoyed and defeated—because, hey, the guy’s complicated—he closes the distance between them and cups her jaw with unexpected gentleness, which only makes her jump a _little_ bit.  She _doesn’t_ jump—doesn’t even _breathe_ —when he presses his forehead into hers.  Her fingers flutter over his, to his wrists, cheeks, to rest finally on either side of his neck. 

“I’m not—I’m not leaving,” he whispers.  “Okay?  I’ll be here, I just can’t risk…”

“Right,” she says, finally letting out the breath she’d been holding as she leans into him.  “Right, the, um—the shady men in black.”

He gives a hollow laugh.  “Right,” he says, holding a beat longer.  “I have to go.  You need to go.”

She opens her mouth to respond but nothing comes out.  He pulls back, just a little bit, and presses his lips to her hairline, and she grips his collar as her eyes start to itch and heart starts to hammer.  When he lets her go, steps out of her space, she almost follows.  “Be seeing you,” she finally says, throat dry and eyes wet.

His smile this time is quick, just a flash of teeth as he walks backward away from her, and it stays, warming her, even after he’s out of sight for just a little while.  It’s hard to say how long she stays there, growing heavier with the weight of exhaustion and the giddy half-dread, half-sad, half-something-else-entirely in her gut before she starts making her way back to the homestead.


End file.
